Death , reaping the mad world, his crimson blade
Wearily swinging,
Saw him and all the beauty that he made,
And heard him singing

Immortal mockery of Death, and said
(Wearily swinging)
“Thus lay I low another dreamer's head!”
And stilled his singing.

But his proud dreams, a lyric throng, arose
(Ah, deathless singing!) . . .
Lo, there 'tis Death! How piteously he goes,
Wearily swinging.